


The King of the Forest

by Ysilme



Series: The Dragonverse [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle fatigue, Gift Fic, M/M, My Slashy Valentine 2015, PTDS, Permanent Injury, Third Age, battle of the five armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysilme/pseuds/Ysilme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of the Five Armies, King Thranduil brings a badly decimated Elven host back to the Greenwood. Dealing with the losses of battle and the aftermath is a bitter task, threatening to overwhelm the king and guardian of the Woodelves and their forest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chloe_amethyst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chloe_amethyst/gifts).



> **Source:** _The Hobbit_ , _The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies_ with smatterings of Tolkien's other works; mostly book canon. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Mentioning of death and battle-related violence, explicit violence.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a work of transformative fiction based on JRR Tolkien's creation, done purely for enjoyment. No money is being made. I promise to give the characters back more or less as I found them.
> 
>  **Notes:** My most heartfelt thanks to Curiouswombat, Keiliss and Lordhellebore for idea-bouncing, hand-holding, alpha- and betareading and generally for being the most awesome friends and writing companions. This story wouldn't be half as good without you. All remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> This story is a stand-alone, though it takes place in the same story-verse as my last year's contribution to MSV, _The Wrath of Dragon fire_ in the late First and early Second Age, and _Midwinter in Eryn Galen_ about a decade later. 
> 
> I hope something like this was what you had in mind with your request, Chloe. I had a great time writing it. Happy Valentine!
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

“ _So began a battle that none had expected; and it was called the Battle of Five Armies, and it was terrible. Upon one side were the Goblins and the wild Wolves, and upon the other were Elves and Men and Dwarves.”_

_J. R. R. Tolkien: The Hobbit or There and Back Again.  
Chapter XVII: ‘The Clouds Burst’._

“ _The elf-host was on the march; and if it was sadly lessened, yet many were glad, for now the northern world would be merrier for many a long day. The dragon was dead, and the goblins overthrown, and their hearts looked forward after winter to a spring of joy.”_

_The Hobbit, Chapter XVIII ‘The Return Journey’._

* * *

 

_Taur-nu-Fuin, 49th day of Rhîw, 2941 T.A._

A grey, overcast sky hung low over the treetops of the forest, heavy with snow. Everything was covered in a thick coat, but it was not the brilliant white of unblemished snow; no, a grey mass, virgin, perhaps, but coloured by the darkness that soaked the soil and clung to the trees, the darkness that permeated the whole forest.

The tall, lithe shape of an elf emerged from a hidden entrance, seemingly out of nowhere, stepping out onto a small clearing. He looked haggard, exhausted, his eyes dull, his shoulders stooping. Wrapped in a thick coat of fur, he made his way through the snow, looking around. Thranduil, King of the Woodland elves, raised his head, tasting the air, assessing the atmosphere. There was danger, even so close to his Halls; nothing had changed. It did not matter that they had fought back the orcs and their spawn at Erebor and that the dragon had been slain.

The death of the dragon had been cause to celebrate among his people, and many new tales were told and songs sung at the fires. Thranduil huffed, moving the left side of his jaw without being aware. True, they had lived under the very real threat of that fire-drake for about a yén. He knew about dragons, better than most, knew about the danger and terror they could evoke. He was the only one of his people still here who had ever seen one from close up, and very close at that. Yes, he had faced and killed a dragon, and lived to tell the tale. Only a small one, allegedly; after all, they were not easy to kill. But Thranduil had paid the price, had been badly injured by its fire. Not many knew, though, for he had found the means to appear unblemished from all but close distance, and had overcome the disability of the vision loss in one eye through sheer stubbornness and endless training. But he had seen the horrors the enemy could work, far more than a sky darkened by the scaled wings of these beasts.

What was one dragon against the impalpable threat of the cursed darkness which took over more and more of the forest, of their home, day by day? They had achieved victory in these long-gone days when his homeland had been devoured by the Sundering Seas, they had achieved victory again and again in the ages since. And still Sauron existed, still he poisoned the land, and still his cursed darkness imbued Thranduil's beloved Greenwood which was not green any longer, but dark. The Lady and the others might have expelled Sauron from Dol Guldur, but he was not gone, and probably never would be. The forest, this forest told another tale, and its guardian, _Aran_ Thranduil, was only too aware of it. Taur-nu-Fuin, they called it now, the Mirkwood. It was a name that pained him deeply, but still a name he could not contest.

His forest was darkening, and so was he. What would happen to his people when the darkness would overcome him? Who would protect them? Who would continue the fight? Or would they all be slowly devoured by the poison of the land, if the blasted spiders did not get them first?

-oOo-


	2. Return

_Rhovanion, eastern border of Taur-nu-Fuin, a few weeks earlier._

Snow began to fall when the elven host reached the first trees. Soft, thick flakes fell silently onto bare branches and naked soil, covering the world around with silence and the darkness with their innocence. Thranduil brought his horse to a halt, letting his gaze wander over the line of elves merging with the shadowed paths of their home. So few, so bitterly few they were; barely a third of his host was uninjured or able to walk. Many carried litters and, further behind, horses followed dragging travois or carrying those who could ride.

It was early in the year for snow with firith only half over, but the weather fitted his mood. Bleak and frozen, and full of pain of the losses of the battle. True, they had prevailed in the end, and won back peace once again, but it was a bitter victory. So many lives had been lost by the united armies, with so many Elves among them. And yet, there was relieved chatter among his warriors, and even a soft song or two or the occasional laugh, for they saw the victory, and the respite it brought them.

Their King had no laughter in his heart nor song, just deep sadness at the suffering of his people and his forest, and at the loss of the fëar of the fallen. He could still hear the clashing of blades, the sound of swords and axes on armour and bodies, and the sickening sounds of bodies killed. They had needed to leave the hröar of the fallen behind, buried on the battlefield, because there were already too many injured to be brought home. Thranduil felt each single loss deeply.

Urging his horse on, he entered the cool, leafy embrace of his beloved trees. It was eerily quiet, even though the black darkness had not yet reached this part, and he felt the changed atmosphere, the oppressive sadness of the forest missing and mourning so many of its children.

A mounted warrior halted a few paces away, his armour denoting his rank as a captain.

“Ýron,” Thranduil acknowledged, absent-mindedly noting how the long, russet strands of his hair moved and flowed like a river despite the braids at his temples, so fitting for his name. “Take the lead,” he ordered, drawing his mind back with difficulty to the task at hand. “I want the wounded seen to as soon as you reach the Halls, and the able given time to rest and recuperate.”

“Of course, sire,” the captain answered, eyeing his King with surprise. Thranduil waved him on, embarrassed about having given such an obvious command. Wearily, he rubbed his eyes and sat back, watching his warriors pass, taking in every single one in turn. He knew them all, knew their fëar, knew their trees, and it was them he needed to concentrate on. Those gone he would feel for a long time still, as he could feel the pain of their trees and would witness their decline. Like after Dagorlad, when they had not been able to bring back the hröar of the fallen, the forest was suffering, and in turn, so was its King.

-oOo-

Life quickly resumed its usual rhythm. The injured were recovering, the fallen mourned, and the living continued much like before, slowly adjusting to the gaps left behind. Winter, with its slower pace, brought people together at the fires, going about their daily duties, or plying their crafts while listening to stories and memories of those gone. It was a time of closeness and comfort, and those left behind found support by their friends and families.

Their King, though, could find neither. Thranduil walked the halls, as it was his wont, visiting his people at their work-places and in their quarters. He listened to their worries and problems, gave counsel and advice. But this habit, taken up when he came to office to bridge the distance between his mixed people of Silvan, Sindar and Avari, did not bring him close to the individual elves as it used to. He felt distant, as if this was somebody else, and he was just an observer. He felt like winter itself, numb and congealed, with all life come to a halt. He could no longer feel life growing and flourishing around him, nor the fëar of the living, as he should; just the shadows of those gone, and the emptiness left behind.

In the evenings, most people gathered around the great fire in Thranduil’s Hall, as it was called. for the evening meal and the customary socialising. If the music and storytelling was less joyful and carefree it still brought people together, and new tales made the rounds about Dwarves, a Halfling and Smaug the formerly Magnificent. But where their King had always been in their midst at all occasions except the most formal, he now stayed at his table, oblivious of the happenings around him. He did not touch his food nor join in any conversation, just sipped his wine and stared into nothingness. More and more often, he did not appear at all and, on these days, many a worried glance strayed to his empty chair.

On one of these evenings, Thranduil entered the infirmary and went to one of the private chambers at the back. He was not surprised to find Ýron here, his captain, sitting at the bed of a warrior who lay unconscious from a severe head-wound. He knew his captain came daily to see young Geldir, who had barely come of age afore the elves marched out to Erebor, not out of duty but because he cared about each of his men. Now he rose, nodding to his King, but hesitant to go. Thranduil knew what Ýron waited for, and though he wished he could avoid it, he accepted it as his duty and sat down at the bedside, taking the unresponsive hand of the wounded. Like the healers he was able to feel the state of a fëa, and how it was still tethered to a hröa. He did not need to say anything, though; his features told enough to his captain who sucked in air sharply and quickly went away.

Thranduil stayed, head bowed over his hands which now both held Geldir’s, guiding this young sapling’s fëa on her way back into the music. He, at least, they could bury under his tree, and while the tree would fade since no new life would come out of Geldir’s line, it would not be painful as it was with the trees of the fallen buried on the battle-field, and Geldir’s tree would not become a place where the murkiness could take root. He remembered the tree well, a pretty young beech, beautiful and nimble as the child who was born under her branches. What a loss they both were. 

-oOo-


	3. Sorrow

The door to the King’s sleeping chamber opened quietly, admitting his squire. It was dark and cold, the fire having long since gone out. Thranduil, slumped in a chair by the fireside, did not react while Rhosgon lit the candles on the bed stand and went about his nightly routine of tidying up.

“You need to sleep.”

“You know I cannot.” Thranduil did not open his eyes. An empty goblet dangled in his hand. “Bring me wine.”

“No, rather not.” Seemingly unperturbed, Rhosgon picked up some discarded clothing. He did not flinch when the goblet crashed against the wall besides his head, but a pulsing beat was visible at his throat.

“Do as I say!” Thranduil shouted, ignoring Rhosgon’s worried glance.

“With all due respect, sire, you have already had enough. More wine would not help, just make you more miserable.”

Thranduil was out of his chair in the blink of an eye, looming over his squire, his face murderous, teeth bared. But he just wrenched his gown off Rhosgon’s arm, threw it over his shoulders and stormed outside, the door slamming shut behind him.

 

Thranduil stopped, realising only now that he had run. As if he had fled from Rhosgon, who was anything but a threat… what was wrong with him? He shook his head, stepping onto the balcony which looked out over the clearing in front of the main entrance and the bridge over the river. The opening was hidden behind a rocky parapet and indistinguishable from below, one of many, cleverly constructed to observe unseen what happened in front of the halls, or who was arriving.

Moonlight bathed the forest in an eerie light, and mist rose from the river, dissolving between the black trunks of the trees, obliterating the difference between the snow-covered ground and the air. He stood and breathed deeply, feeling as if he had not tasted fresh air for a life-time.

He felt trapped, trapped inside his Halls, trapped inside his body, trapped inside something he could not even name any longer. What was happening to him?

-oOo-

In the morning, he went in search of his squire. He found Rhosgon in the laundry, busy with the wine stains the flying goblet had left on a wall hanging. Thranduil flinched at the sight of the dark splotches on the lighter ground, taking a deep breath to quench the rising nausea. This was not blood, but wine, as he forcefully needed to remind himself.

He stepped close, laying a hand on Rhosgon’s shoulder.

“I am very sorry for last night, old friend,” he said quietly. “Did I hit you?”

Rhosgon, who had been rather tense at the sight of him, relaxed under his touch. “No. So far, you have never forgotten to take care to miss me,” he said with a wry grin.

Thranduil nodded ruefully. “Perhaps, but still, it was inexcusable. You had better leave me alone when I am in such a foul mood. It might be healthier.”

Rhosgon, who had been dabbing the wall hanging with a cloth drenched in some liquid, put both down, and looked around. Seeing they were alone, he said: “Fear not, my reactions are still good. But I worry about you, Thranduil. You are barely sleeping, and I know you are having nightmares. Your mood has become erratic, sometimes distant, sometimes irascible… I do not like this.”

Thranduil sighed. “I know, I know. But what else can I do? I keep to my routines, visit people, exercise. I try to eat and sleep, but more often than not I am unable to do either. I wish there was somebody I could talk to, but who? I am their king, I need to be strong and reliable for my people.”

Before Rhosgon could answer they were interrupted by an elf carrying a laundry basket, and Thranduil left after a last glance at his squire. He wandered aimlessly, lost in thought. Rhosgon was right, his moods changed often, and he knew he sometimes overreacted badly. He wished Legolas was still here. But he had sent him away himself to Imladris, feeling that his son needed a change of scenery and to meet new people, learn about a different culture. He had always hoped his son would become friends with the Peredhel twins. He wished he could talk to Elrond, wise, always reliable Elrond. He might know what was happening to him, and what could be done to amend it.

-oOo-

 _The stench was horrible. Blood, entrails, torn flesh… there were piles of bodies, orcs, elves and dwarves alike, ripped open by claws and teeth, and everywhere the foul beasts poked their snouts into corpses to find the tastiest bits, growling and snarling at each other and sometimes even going at each other’s throats. With a pained yelp, one of the wargs fell dead, slithering down a mound blackened by blood and landing at Thranduil’s feet. He stood, the broken stump of his sword in hand, unable to move, terrified, when a guttural voice screeched something he could not understand, and then a new wave of wargs with riders on their backs jumped over the corpses and closed down_ _on him._

Thranduil started up, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, the sudden darkness terrifying him until he slowly realised that he was no longer on the battle-field, but in his own bed. It was just a nightmare, not real, but more brutal and vivid than the last one. They grew worse, haunting him every time now he fell asleep - which happened less and less often.

He threw his coverlet off, unable to remain any longer between the clammy sheets. With trembling hands he reached for the decanter on his bed stand, refilling his goblet and taking a deep sip. But his clumsier, scarred, left hand misjudged the distance when he put the decanter back, and it tumbled, spraying the sheets with dark red droplets. With a panicked cry he scrambled backwards. Memories and dream images flashed through his mind, and he could no longer distinguish between reality and memory and if this was happening now or was a thing of the past. He fell off the bed with a cry, came to his feet again, and stumbled blindly towards the door. He needed to get out, out into the forest, needed to get somewhere where there was no blood, no killing, no fear, anywhere, just away from here.

Thranduil ran, ran through the dim corridors not heeding where he was going, trying to flee the images in his mind, the scent of blood which clogged his senses. When he ran out of breath he found himself in front of the large gates of the main entrance. Out, he wanted out, he needed to get out and, not even noticing the guards who were addressing him with concern, he tried to open one of the small side doors.

“Sire, are you all right?”

He spun around, ready to attack the elf who was standing far too close for comfort, but then he recognised the russet hair and the clear blue eyes of his captain.

“Ýron,” he gasped. “Out. I need to get out.”

The firm gaze of the captain took in his King’s dishevelled look, the unkempt hair and bare feet, the absence of any adornment he usually wore even with his most casual clothing. There was doubt in his eyes, but also understanding.

“If you must, then, sire. But not unarmed and unprotected.”

Thranduil nodded mutely, accepting the other elf’s boots, leather jerkin and dagger, and a cloak from one of the guards. Then he turned for the door again, which was now opened for him, and hurried outside. He had gotten a bit of control back and knew again where he was and what was happening, but this did not change his need to move on and go into the forest. He stood for a moment, sucking in the frosty air greedily before he continued, quickly but not running, over the bridge crossing the river, over the clearing, and then he merged with the trees.

He breathed with relief as he felt their presence, felt the embrace of the branches and slowed more, walking briskly but silently. He touched the trunks in passing, finding solace in the contact. Every step brought him more out of his frenzy. But, with the lessening of his panic, his awareness of the forest around him and its suffering increased.

Without being consciously aware, Thranduil headed towards the south-west, deep into the forest towards a clearing which was the most secret and sacred place of the Greenwood. The Enedh, the centre, was the sanctum of the Woodelves, nay, of the wood itself. When he realised where he was heading he began to run again, for the clearing was a long way to go.

Bit by bit he also became aware of the sound of night-birds. He knew some of these were not uttered by birds but by his sentries giving each other signals of his passing. Some of these were scattered all over the forest in a wide perimeter around the Halls, but he suspected that Ýron had also sent one or two to follow him discreetly, just out of sight, to protect him if necessary. The King of the Greenwood usually did not need a guard for safe-keeping, for the forest would guard him even against the spiders, but since he had left in less than his full capacities it was probably as well.

-oOo-


	4. Despair

The sun was sending her first feeble rays through the boughs when Thranduil reached the Enedh. It was a small clearing and, for most people, it would look not different from any other. In summer, soft grasses and sweet flowers spread a wispy carpet, but now in winter, a pristine, white layer covered the ground, unblemished even by animal tracks. The clearing was protected and the snow less high than further north, but still the odd shape in the middle rose just barely above it. Jagged remnants of a tree stump were decomposing in places, overgrown with fungi in bright colours, with a few odd shapes of withered, dead wood in between.

This was where Thranduil was headed, this was the heart of the wood. The decomposing stump was all that remained above ground of the Ornemel, the mother of all trees; but under ground, an enormous root system, originating from here, reached far, far out into the forest. Some said each tree of the Greenwood was connected through this, and that here, at its heart, everything could be sensed that happened anywhere in the vast forest expanse.

It was here that Thranduil had been bound to the forest when he became its guardian and the King of the Woodelves, like every king before him. Through this binding, he had become one with the forest, and through the link so created he sensed the forest in a very literal way. Sensed birth and growth and new life, but also loss and pain and the growing darkness. Sensed it through every step he took on the ground where a tree still spread is roots, through every touch to a tree or part of it, felt it through the air, like an echo. Even inside his halls he was always in touch with the forest, for the rock connected to the roots and linked him to the outside world.

For Thranduil, this binding also meant something else. Any elf born in the Greenwood, no matter to which people, saw the light of the stars for the first time under a specially chosen, young tree which would become their personal tree. A guardian would link the child to the tree when the afterbirth was buried among its roots and the connection thus sealed. For all the elf’s life, this very tree would be the their guardian and friend, and when the tree reached the end of its life-cycle, one of its offshoots would take its place. Thranduil, who had been born in Doriath, had not had a personal tree in the Greenwood, like some of the Sindar among his people, until he had been bound to the Ornemel, which now also was his personal tree.

And so he did not only come here as the forest’s guardian, to be close to the Enedh, but also to his tree like any other elf who sought the closeness of his forest guardian and found comfort under its canopy. But this also was a two-sided sword, for the pain of the forest he was feeling since the battle, the pain about the lost elves, was so much more palpable here, and threatened now to overwhelm him.

Thranduil sank to his knees at the tree stump. Brushing away snow he searched for a thick, gnarled root arching upwards for he longed to touch living wood, not the withered remnants of the tree itself. When his hands closed around the root, he cried out, though, flooded by an overwhelming feeling of loss and despair.

This was the other side to every Woodelf’s link to their tree: they were not only linked in life, but also in death. If their tree was dying without any offspring the elf would fade. But if an elf died, their tree would die as well. Usually, the elf would be buried among the roots of his tree, and the tree then would slowly die in a natural way. But if the elves could not be returned to their trees, and if it was a large number, such as it happened after the battle, the death of the trees was forced and painful. Some toppled over, as if their roots had been cut, some lost their crown, some split open or broke apart. And this was not even the worst, for in these trees, forced to a brutal end, the darkness took root much more easily, found nourishment to grow and spread.

Thranduil blamed himself for their losses in battle. Had he not desired to get back the gems from the dragon’s hoard, no elven army would have marched to the Erebor, and been involved in the battle. It did not help that these gems were not only the last memory of his late wife, but also of his Queen, and thus held a large symbolic value for his people. They were just stones, after all, not worth so many lives spent over them. Not worth any life, if it came to that. It did not help to know that the enemy would have had an easy victory without the aid of the elves, and, after running over Erebor and the dwellings of Men, would have marched towards the Greenwood and endangered his whole people without any certainty that they could withstand.

Nothing of this helped, on the contrary. He not only felt the loss and guilt over the fallen elves and the diminishing of his people, but also the loss and damage to the forest, and the guilt of being the cause of it. Was he not their guardian, trees and elves alike? Was it not his duty and desire to protect and to heal? He had welcomed this duty when he succeeded his father after Dagorlad, and had willingly taken on the task of rebuilding his people after their horrible losses back then, and help the forest heal. And now -now it had happened again, through his fault.

Thranduil wept, unable to contain his despair any longer. He crouched over the root, clinging to it with hands slippery from his tears, no longer aware where his fëa ended and the forest’s awareness began, dissolving into it like he had that first time.

Then, he knew no more.

-oOo-


	5. Hope

He woke to the sound of a fire crackling. Fire? Thranduil opened his eyes. How could there be a fire here, in the middle of the forest?

It was dark again, and he was no longer alone. A small fire was lit close by, and he found himself wrapped in his cloak and a blanket, warm and dry. A tall shape sat at the fire, poking it with a twig. A familiar shape with long, unbound, silver hair, and sombre features. Celeborn.

“What are you doing here?” Thranduil croaked, surprised how hoarse his voice was. He remembered that he had wept, but he obviously also had cried out loud.

“You called for me, so I came,” Celeborn answered enigmatically.

Thranduil sat up. “Called for you?”

“The forest. The tree.” The Sinda nodded to the Ornemel.

Thranduil shook his head to clear it, not understanding anything. He scrambled to his feet, stiff from the long time he must have lain in the snow, and came over to the fire where he sat down at Celeborn’s side. A leather flask was passed to him, and he drank thirstily. Míruvor. Warmth and new energy flooded his limbs, and he sat up straighter.

“Thank you.”

Celeborn, unfamiliar in sturdy, warm, hunting gear instead of his usual fair robes, leaned in to put a branch onto the fire.

“I have the same connection to the forest as you have, Thranduil,” he explained. “I have gone through the same ritual and am also its guardian. It does not matter that your people and your part of the forest is so far away. I still feel the pain and the despair, and I felt yours through this link. My Lady… my Lady saw a lot of what has happened at Erebor, and more we heard from some who passed through Lothlórien.”

Thranduil gazed into the fire. “I was not aware. Does this link also work the other way around? I do not think I ever felt you or your people.”

“It does work both ways. But – you know of my Lady's ring, do you not?”

When Thranduil nodded, he continued: “My people are protected also by my Lady, through Nenya. The ring shields what is happening in Lothlórien, even through the link of the forest. You would have needed to concentrate on somebody specific within that shield, or come here to have a heightened awareness through touch, as you did. You were supposed to be taught about this, though. I am sorry that it did not happen.”

“I see.”

They sat, silently, watching the flames. Thranduil felt secure in the other’s presence, and surprisingly comforted. But then, Celeborn had always been a close friend, back since the days when a young Thranduil often had found a mentor in the older Sinda. He trusted him completely, knowing Celeborn cared deeply about him.

“Something is happening to me, since the battle,” Thranduil said after a while. “I should be caring for my people, for the living. I am their King and their guardian, I should be their advisor. I should make plans and give them courage and comfort. But I cannot. I feel nothing but pain and despair and the loss of those gone, and can think of nothing else. And sometimes, even that slips away, and grows shady and dark. It - it feels as if the darkness is seeping into my veins.”

Celeborn listened.

“So many are gone, Celeborn, and it is my fault. I brought them to the battlefield, I ordered them to fight. I sent them to their death, knowing that their trees would die with them and allow the darkness to spread. I am - I have failed. Failed as a guardian, as a King.”

Thranduil looked down, feeling the burden of his guilts in an almost physical manner.

“You have not failed.”

“What?” He looked up and met clear eyes, looking at him with concern.

Celeborn raised his hand and gently cupped Thranduil’s face. “You have not failed, Thranduil, neither as a King, nor as a man. Had you not fought in battle, your people might be fighting for their survival at this very moment, or had even already been vanquished by the enemy and devoured by the darkness. But you know this. You have done nothing wrong, Thranduil, except that you did not take care of yourself, to keep strong and resilient. As elves, we might be more fëa than hröa, but we need to care for our hröar all the same, or our fëa will suffer.”

Thranduil leant into the warm hand on his skin. “I do not understand…”

Celeborn got up and crouched down in front of Thranduil, putting his free hand on his shoulder in a firm grip.

“When was the last time you have been held, Thranduil?”

Thranduil pondered the question. “I do not know. Since Laegwen’s death, a couple of times at the Midwinter celebrations, but I cannot even remember the last time.”

Celeborn nodded. “l feared as much. You need it, though, as we all do. You need to feel comfort and closeness, both with your body and with your soul, and you need to be able to let go once in a while. How can you be strong for your people if you never allow yourself to be anybody but the King instead of just a man? You do not need to share pleasures to this end, though sharing pleasures is an easy means to let go, of course.”

He smiled, but his smile made Thranduil sad.

“There is nobody I can be with in this way. I can never be not their King, not be strong and the leader. It was different when Legolas was younger; he always saw in me the father first, and the King second. But he needs me no longer in this manner, and he is gone anyway. I sent him to Imladris.”

“So you have done for him what you would not do for yourself. I thought as much. This is why I have come, Thranduil. To give you what you crave, and to be for you what you need.”

Thranduil swallowed, unable to say anything, but it was not necessary. The look Celeborn gave him… sombre and earnest, but also so full of tenderness that he felt something loosen inside him, something hard and unrelenting. A low sound escaped him, a sigh, and Thranduil knew that Celeborn could indeed give him what he needed: the security and comfort to let go, to feel weak, and to give over command to somebody else.

-oOo-


	6. Solace

Celeborn got up, taking off his fur cloak and spreading it close to the fire. After adding more branches to the fire, he offered Thranduil his hand. Thranduil took it, stood, and followed Celeborn to the spread cloak. They knelt down, facing each other, and then warm, strong hands were on his arms, his shoulders, his face. Celeborn looked at him with the same intense gaze as if he were the most important thing in the world; and when Thranduil gave no sign of resistance, he pressed a soft kiss on his forehead.

Thranduil felt the tension leaving his body like a cold trickle down his back, leaving warmth in its stead when the kissing continued, first on his closed eyes and then his cheeks, nose, and lips. He opened his mouth to allow warm breath to mingle and turned his face upwards to accommodate the taller elf moving his lips down along his throat. At this moment he realised he was not wearing either crown nor circlet, and his breath hitched.

He wore one of either at all times except in bed, and sometimes even then, because it was the magic woven into the gems in his headdress which created the illusion of an unblemished face. Touch would not be misled as the damage remained palpable, but he knew the sensation was less shocking to the other if the scars and his blind eye remained hidden. Of course, Celeborn knew him since well before the dragon marked him, and had seen him many times before Thranduil was able to disguise his face. That he had now kissed him so tenderly on both the hale and the damaged side of his face, while being fully aware of it, gave Thranduil an even deeper degree of security. It was as if he was completely naked in front of the other, divested of his office, his duty, and his pride. All that remained was the man, with his fears and worries, pain and guilt, the man who needed to be held, to be comforted, to be loved.

It was too cold to undress. Celeborn guided Thranduil to lie down with him, carefully spreading his coat and the blanket over them. Drawing Thranduil gently into his arms, he began to hum softly, a tune Thranduil did not know but which sounded like a lullaby.

Until now, Thranduil had let everything just happen. Not needing to do anything, not to take any decision, no matter how insignificant, brought him back to the blissful, childhood-like state of utter security, and something inside him melted, releasing pent-up anxiety and the despair which had been increasingly choking him. A hand opened his jerkin and tunic and slipped inside, coming to rest on his breast, emitting warmth like a fire. A sob broke forth, and another, and then he clung to Celeborn while his body shook with desperate sobbing. Dimly, he felt the other's hand cradling his head and rocking him gently, while Celeborn's voice murmuring comforting nonsense guided him through the outbreak of his grief.

When his sobs had run dry, he lay silent, listening to his own breathing, and Celeborn’s, and he felt a sense of peace he had believed no longer possible. Gentle fingers brushed strands of his hair clinging to his wet cheeks away, and brushed a drop of moisture from the tip of his nose. Thranduil snuffled. Gradually, he became aware of his surroundings again. The sounds of the night, muted because of the snow, the fire crackling, a night bird in the distance. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift away. It was easy now, he no longer feared that everything would just slip away if he allowed himself to let go. He did not sleep, just sank into a deep, relaxing doze. He was aware that Celeborn got up once or twice to put more wood on the fire, but it felt too good to just lie there and enjoy the warm, solid arms coming back to him to snuggle into.

When the night was darkest, a breaking log woke him back into full consciousness. He sat up with a start, heart beating. Celeborn had fallen asleep and now opened his eyes.

“Just a log,” Thranduil said, lying back down and drawing the covers back up again. Celeborn slid closer, and Thranduil turned on his side to nestle again him with his back, with Celeborn’s arm around him. He watched the glowing embers, followed a spark rising upwards. And then the words came.

Celeborn listened, silently and full of attention while Thranduil emptied his heart. At one point, his hand sought out Thranduil’s and took hold of it, firm and reassuring, as if to anchor him in this world.

It was so good to be able to talk. Just talk, about everything that had happened, everything he felt, everything he worried about. The grief, the losses, the guilt. Wrong decisions, right decisions, indecision, insecurity. The desperate need for counsel but not having anybody to turn to because he must not show his weakness or his doubt. The feeling of failure, spanning back to his coming into the Kingship and the rebuilding of his people, the failure to keep the darkness away, and the desperate fight against the enemy.

When he had finished, after a while, Celeborn tightened his half-sided embrace. “I understand,” he said.

It was enough.

Thranduil turned around, gazing into the beautiful, sombre face of the silver-haired elf. He noticed a faint scar at the left temple, thin and silvery, and remembered where Celeborn had acquired it. His hand went up, tracing it, wandering into Celeborn’s hair, ghosting over his scalp. Caressing, tender and questioning. He saw the colour of his eyes change from blue-grey to slate, showing Celeborn’s emotions better than his face ever could. He found the ear, and when he let his finger glide over the rim up to the tip, Celeborn moaned softly.

Thranduil shivered. It felt as if another layer around his fëa had come off, and he was able to sense again, to feel his body in a very basic and enjoyable way. He continued with his caresses while Celeborn lay utterly still, letting him decide where he wanted to go. His lips sought Celeborn’s, merging tenderness with desire, and he brought both hands up, drawing his head close in a passionate kiss.

Hands opened fastenings, slipping inside, not caring if icy air met exposed skin. Touched, felt, caressed. Somebody moaned. Lips met, no longer gentle, bodies pressed against each other. Hips bucked, hands held fast, pressed, groped. Mouths wandered over throats, deeper, kissed, sucked, bit, and then everything dissolved into a powerful oneness, borne by passion and wild tenderness and taking them upwards to the stars. They were no longer two bodies intertwined, but linked to everything around them, one with the music and the night.

-oOo-


	7. Epilogue

It was still dark when Thranduil woke, but the powdery blue-grey of pre-dawn already illuminated the sky. He yawned, stretching out after the first good sleep he had had since - since before the battle, actually. The battle!

Thranduil sat up when the memory came back. He was not bivouacking with his men on some patrol or journey or even a hunting trip, as his sleep-fogged mind had first suggested. No, he was at the Enedh, where he had come in desperation to seek solace at the Ornemel; where he had fled to because he had been losing his mind over the burden of their losses and grief. He remembered pouring out his painat the roots of the tree, remembered crying harder than he had ever before in his life. He remembered Celeborn, who had been there later, comforting and holding him until he slept, and more.

Thranduil blushed a little at the memory of the hours spent in Celeborn’s arms, oblivious to anything but the comfort and security these arms had given him, and the warmth and kind love he had found at the solid chest.

Had he really, though, or had it all been just a dream? Celeborn and he had been close back in the days of Menegroth, in the First Age, when Thranduil had found a friend and mentor in the older Sinda, and occasionally also a lover; but their lives had rarely intersected afterwards, and he had not seen Celeborn for at least a yén or two.

He looked around. There were the remains of a fire that had not been there before Celeborn had come, but he might have built it himself; his memory had been fickle of late. Nobody was about, nothing else was to be seen, and no traces in the snow bore witness to anything that might have happened. But more snow had fallen overnight; even his own covering was overlaid with a finger or two of white.

Thranduil shivered for, despite being warm from sleep, his upper body was uncovered. He got up to shake out what he thought of as his cloak, for he remembered his Captain insisting that he did not leave the Halls without. It was not only his cloak he now had in his hands, though, but also a blanket, and he was standing on a thick garment of fur. He thought he remembered Celeborn giving him the blanket and wearing a fur cloak. Dreams certainly would not be so detailed, would they? And he was sure he had not brought either of them with him. He picked up the cloak and put it on, and the scent lingering on it reminded him strongly of the last night. So, not a dream after all, now he was sure.

There was a small pile beside the fireplace. Thranduil brushed the snow aside to find a couple of logs and a small satchel made from bark. The ashes were still hot, and he soon had a fire going to warm his hands, while he nibbled the nuts he had found in the satchel. How very typical of Celeborn, to care for him in such a way! Thranduil smiled fondly. The cloak, the fire banked so it would last a while, the food… how kind he was. Come to think of it, the fact alone that Celeborn had come to him, come for him, was the kindest thing Thranduil could imagine.

No, it was real. Somebody had come, somebody - Celeborn - had been there for him, to share his pain and his burden, and to give him support. Thranduil felt much more at ease now, and, more importantly, no longer feared he was losing his mind. Talking to somebody who understood and knew about his worries and pains had made such a difference, and after having poured out his heart to Celeborn he felt relieved even in a physical way. His burden was no lighter, but it was no longer suffocating him, and he knew again that he had the courage and the capability to carry it.

This is what peace must mean, Thranduil mused. Not the absence of danger, nor pain or loss, but an equilibrium of these and of joy and love, and the ability to admit them all into your life, and grow stronger. He could do that.

_~ finis ~_

**Author's Note:**

>  _Sindarin terms:_  
>  aran - king  
> Ornemel - mother tree  
> enedh - centre  
> yén, yéni - 144 years 
> 
> Names:  
> Laegwen - green maiden  
> Rhosgon - wise whisper  
> Ýron - river course 
> 
> _Seasons among the Eldar, as taken from[Celandine’s calendar](http://www.wellinghall.net/fiction/viewstory.php?sid=28&chapter=1%20%20%20%0A):_  
>  Ethuil = Spring  
> Laer = Summer  
> Iavas = Autumn  
> Firith = Fading  
> Rhîw = Winter  
> Echuir = Stirring
> 
> * * *
> 
> Written for chloe_amethyst for the My Slashy Valentine Exchange 2015.  
> Prompt: _Battle fatigue and recovery. Third or fourth age please. Elves and/or men in any combination._
> 
> The idea of the trees and the elves being linked in this way sprang from my own mind, though similar ideas have doubtlessly happened before.  
> Keiliss pointed out to me that my idea reminded her of the [Pando](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pando_%28tree%29) tree colony in Utah. I didn't know of this before, but it does fit what I had in mind quite nicely, and I'm in awe that this crazy idea I had somewhere when I started building my own Woodelven culture headcanon does actually exist in a way.


End file.
